


Mechanical

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: POV Second Person, brief mention of joan and jianna, joan centric fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: While the meat cooks, you turn your attention to the goldfish swimming in circles. A simple-minded creature that enjoys the monotony of a meager existence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Since I wrote a second person fic for Vera, I figured why not attempt one for Joan?

With a microcosm like Wentworth, there needs to be perfect order. Here, you're a queen seeking dominion over this kingdom with its disobedient, little paupers. You've earned yourself a mighty fine reputation through the years. They call you “The Fixer” – a name more suitable for the mafia and you might as well be thanks to your Russian heritage.

Meg Jackson is dead and you find a sick (but you're not sick; you're perfectly in control) sense of satisfaction in that. You take over as Governor in Wentworth and already, there's chaos. The women act more like wild animals setting fire to their beds. Their Top Dog thinks she's the bitch of this place and while that's an unsavory word, you'll knock them down. Show everyone their proper place in this masterful game of chess you've created.

You start with the acting deputy, Vera Bennett, who is a lonely woman starved of affection and desperate for approval. It's easy to manipulate her. To lure her into a trust fall. Miles is easiest; she requires the least amount of work. Throw a dog a bone and she'll go chasing it. It's money that makes that “screw” tick. Fletcher is a simple-minded man who falls into a violent cycle of rage and war horror stories; it's too easy to unravel him. You almost find it boring. But it's Mr. Jackson you want to suffer most for what he's put you through. He doesn't remember you when you walk in with your polished heels and your attitude that commands a presence. Yes, you start with Vera. You mold her into a knight for your chessboard.

You'll see this place fall down and put it back together again.

Typical of your perfectionism, you stay late in the office. With a turn of your wrist, you sharpen four no. 2 pencils. Best to keep an even number for balance's sake. You flick through the camera feed on your Mac, eyeing the women with a detached scorn that imbues you with a frosty stare. You fall into the monotony of paperwork. The pages shuffle. The pencil reviews the reports. You approve the shift rotations. You sign your name on the line. You work yourself to the bone until a pleasant ache forms in your knuckles. Knotted tension in your muscles informs you of a job well done.

You finish up and swipe a gloved hand over the front of your blazer. Your buttons are polished, taking on a gleam from the fluorescent lights that are near blinding. Even your crowns upon your broad shoulders seem to glitter gold. You lock the door behind you. You hide the red room of your masterful manipulation that way. You've become Bluebeard with your secrets. You hold your bag for inspection on the way out, transparent for easy access, but you're not so clear-cut.

It's well into the night when you eat alone. You leave your keys in a small bowl conveniently located inside the foyer. Like clockwork, you change out of your uniform in exchange for your house clothes. In your grey lounge apparel, you resemble a prisoner of your mind and it's a dangerous prelude that you ignore. You shower in the morning to prepare yourself for the dawn of a new day. You're full of rituals that give you some semblance of normalcy. At home and at work, you are perfectly in control.

It takes you an hour to prepare your meal. Tonight, you choose lamb. Your knife cuts swiftly through the pink muscle that lays on a wooden board, ready for the sacrifice. It sizzles in a pain, weeps for what it used to be, a life taken in this vicious cycle, but it will empower you. Tonight, you will a single glass of Shiraz, finer than Bordeaux to accompany the dish.

While the meat cooks, you turn your attention to the goldfish swimming in circles. A simple-minded creature that enjoys the monotony of a meager existence. You tap out a small portion of fish flakes into the lid. Into the bowl, they go. You can't stand to touch the dehydrated krill with your bare fingers. It's unsanitary. He swims to the surface, mouth gaping and hungry. You watch for a single moment before returning your attention to the kitchen. You wash your hands before and after.

The square ceramic place houses that cut of lamb alongside a green garnish. You pour yourself a level glass of wine. Enough to enjoy, but not enough to affect your mind. Knife and fork form a musical clink, clink, clink. You eat in silence, the sound of your chewing mechanical. You grind your teeth to cut the meat. You are a machine, perfectly in tune with yourself.

As a pragmatic woman, you don't take a moment to relax in your lonely dining chair. There's much to be done. You remove yourself from the table you polish every Sunday. Dutifully, you wash the dishes. Scrub them clean with the water running at its hottest. You prefer the heat; it makes you feel.

Silence infects your picturesque home. From the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of your father. You can hear him speak and it's a dull, distant sound. He says, “Remember, Joan.” You remember. You remember everything. You always do.

Like a good daughter, you respond.

“I know.”

Two words serves as a sufficient respond unlike your normal prose. The sound of rushing water comes to an end. Even though you're compliant, your memory still drifts to _her_. You promised to protect her; you **promised**. Promise forms a tight knot in the back of your throat. You remember how it felt to hold her, to gently brush away her tears with your thumb, to kiss her, but love-- love is too much. It's a risk. An emotion. A crutch. A weakness.

You stalk down your empty hallways that lack personality. These barren walls form a lifeless home. Photographs are too risque. You don't keep her memory around. Instead, you keep selective evidence. You've watched her son grow up from afar. Down the wrong tracks, he's wandered. You see her face in his. It's too much.

You exhale deeply to soothe the emotional wound that's nicked your impressive armor. In the bathroom, you resume with your nightly rituals. You open the medicine cabinet and reach for your cold cream. Two fingers into the jar. Four streaks applied: forehead, nose, cheeks. You apply it evenly across your face, removing the mask of makeup. A maroon washcloth dips under the faucet's scorching hot rush of water. The steam clears your senses. Your conscience, if you have one.

You don't recognize the figure looking back at you in the mirror, your face hidden by a cloud of condensation.

Your cheeks hollow.

It takes a healthy sort of self-restraint to refrain from smashing the looking glass with your bare hands that you wash again for the fifth time this evening.

You are in control.

You are.

You aren't.

 


End file.
